


Leeward

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Anger, Control, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s pure military, something he can’t stand from John on the best of days, and right then when it’s the damned military behavior that’s put Rodney in this position—he can’t. He just can’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leeward

Rodney’s been angry plenty of times before. He likes anger—it’s a shot of adrenaline when he needs it most, clearing his mind and letting him do his seven impossible things before breakfast. Anger is _comforting_ , a shield and a weapon both, and as familiar as breathing. Anger is normal.

Right now, Rodney is so angry that he’s scaring himself.

That’s never happened before. No, never. He’s been so angry he’s scared _other_ people, sure. That happens all the time, whether he’s actually threatening violence or not.

But he’s never been so angry that his hands shake like he has palsy, boiling and freezing at the same time, while his mind flits from one thing to another too fast for it to make any kind of rational sense.

“Rodney.”

He can’t even move, despite the shaking. It’s just—oh, god. Anger. Seething, violent hatred that makes Rodney want to smash something, want to see red blood and hear whimpering cries of pain and he’s _never_ been a sadist, never, and—

“Rodney!”

He turns, mechanical and slow because if he doesn’t stay mechanical and slow, he’s going to start screaming.

Carson crouches down in front of Rodney, expression sober. “You’ll be no use to anyone if your blood pressure spikes. Let me give you something?”

“What? No, no, what are you talking about? I’m fine, you need to be back there!” Back behind the blue-grey curtain that bulges every few seconds. There’s no defined shape of shoulders and back, neck and head, but Rodney’s certain the movements come from people, not the aircon that leaves the infirmary three steps up from Antarctica’s icy chill.

“No, I don’t. He’s fine, Rodney, barely a scratch on him.”

That—that’s impossible. It’s so impossible that Rodney doesn’t even _say_ it is, staring mutely as Carson gets to his feet and rummages around in a drawer. There’s just no way. Rodney saw that explosion, he saw that manic gleam in self-sacrificing eyes, he calculated the trajectory and the potential impact and there is _no possible way in any galaxy, ever._

After a moment, the curtain bulges a final time and Sheppard walks out. He’s got a bandage on one bared forearm and he’s dusty as hell. His hair looks wilted.

But that’s about it. Other than those three things, all minor, all fixable, he’s fine.

It’s a _good thing_. It is, particularly after what Rodney’s been envisioning all through the ’jumper ride home—the second, since the wounded had been taken over in the first—and his own check up in the infirmary. He should be relieved. He should be happy.

Instead, he gets angrier.

Sheppard turns toward him, smiling in that half-smug, half-smirky way of his that means he did something right, got away with _altering science_ or _reality_ for whatever it was he wanted. Worse, he knows that even if he’s reprimanded, he did the right thing and everyone will be forced to acknowledge it. No matter how badly they grit their teeth and hate him.

At least, John does until he catches Rodney’s expression.

“Whoa.” Hurrying over, John gets a hand on Rodney’s shoulder and squeezes tightly enough that it almost hurts. “Jeez, McKay, are you even breathing?” He shakes Rodney’s shoulder once, trying to encourage said breathing, probably.

Rodney lets himself be moved and works on finding words again. They’ve gone off some place. All he has is red, red, blindingly red rage, a tightness in his chest, and the beginnings of a headache that’s coming up from his _feet_ , swamping him with the overwhelming, impossible need to punch John Sheppard in the face as hard as he absolutely can.

Because _of course_ he’s fine. Of course Rodney thought he was dead, or horribly maimed, or oh, god, _dead_ , furious and terrified and even more furious because he shouldn’t have _been_ terrified and—ow?

“Hey!” he snapped, jerking a too-tight neck down to see Carson withdrawing a needle.

“It’s a sedative,” Carson says, but he’s looking at John when he says it. John, who has a hand around the back of Rodney’s neck, resting it there possessively like they’re alone in the infirmary.

Actually, they are alone in the infirmary, Rodney realizes, looking around in sudden interest. It’s deserted, but for the three of them.

Rodney should probably stand, since both Carson and John are standing as they have a serious conversation about... huh. About _Rodney._

“... that bad?” John’s asking.

“No, no, of course not. Just enough to stop him from going hypertensive on me, or giving himself a stroke.”

Trying to get enough control to stand gets pushed aside by the tone in Carson’s voice. Carson is not well pleased right then, which is understandable, but he hadn’t sounded that clipped or disapproving when he’d been speaking to Rodney before. But now he is, when he speaks to John. Huh. Curious, Rodney stands up and tries to study their expressions.

The room spins drunkenly.

John reacts faster than Carson, getting an arm around Rodney’s back, anchoring him. “Easy there, Rodney. Carson, I thought you said it was a _light_ sedative.”

“It is! I can’t help it if the man’s on the edge of a breakdown!”

Carson is about three seconds from throwing his hands in the air, or wringing them, or something old maidish and the sedative gives Rodney a chance to remember _why_ he’s so angry. “Whatever,” he interrupts. “Is he free to go?”

“Aye, he’s fine, the lucky bastard. Go on, both of you, get out so I can let everyone else back in.”

The implication that Carson kicked people for a reason doesn’t even phase Rodney, although in the back of his mind he knows it should’ve. He’ll deal with it later. If it really needs to be dealt with, which Rodney can’t determine right then, because he’s too busy dragging John back to his quarters.

Rodney’s quarters. Not John’s.

“McKay,” John laughs. He’s letting himself be towed, giving Rodney side-long glances that grow increasingly worried. “Hey, Rodney—where’s the fire?”

Almost Rodney says exactly where the ‘fire’ is, and where it was left, back on a planet with a grateful populace since their planet continues to _exist_ , thanks to his scientific brilliance and John’s repeated attempts to give himself over for the greater good. He only just manages to close his teeth against the words.

Finally, finally they make it to his room. He _shoves_ John in, waving the door closed with a curt gesture that has John putting his hands up, placating. “Look, Rodney, you know I didn’t have a—”

Rodney punches him so hard John goes down on his ass.

“Don’t finish that,” he snaps. “Don’t ever fucking finish that.”

John shuts up. He’s holding his jaw, already a dull red peeking through his fingers that will only get worse, Rodney’s sure. John may be the soldier but Rodney’s got about twenty pounds on him, plus big hands and big, broad shoulders. And he’s been working with Ronon a little.

“Congratulations,” Rodney says heavily. “You saved the planet. Yay you.”

That gets John’s attention, face blank but for the glittering darkness of his eyes. He stays quiet, though, waiting. When Rodney doesn’t say anything more, staring blankly at nothing on the far wall, John slowly, carefully gets up. His arms are half out from his body—no sudden moves here—as he stands, but he links his hands behind his back once he’s fully upright.

The sight of it makes Rodney feel sick.

It’s pure military, something he can’t stand from John on the best of days, and right then when it’s the damned military behavior that’s put Rodney in this position—he can’t. He just can’t.

“Go shower,” he orders dully. He misses the anger from before, staccato and loud, spurring him on. All that’s left is an ache he doesn’t understand, his mind wrapped in gauze. Damn Carson and his needle-pushing ways. “You’re disgusting.”

“Come with me?”

“Who gave you permission to talk?”

But John ignores that, sidling closer until he’s a breath away from touching Rodney. “You’re just as filthy as I am. You need to shower.”

“Yes, yes, fine, I reek. I’ll get one after—”

“Please?”

John doesn’t often ask for things. Oh, he’ll wheedle and cajole and bully. He’ll issue demands. He’ll grudgingly request things from superiors, when he’s forced to.

He rarely says please. Even more rarely means it.

Rodney doesn’t move when John curls an arm over his shoulder, hand settling on his neck again. It’s only partly comfort, and mostly for John. The rest of it’s because John’s wavering, unable to stay upright on his own.

“Fine,” Rodney says, clipped and hating himself.

They undress separately, John collecting their dirty, blood-stained clothes and putting them in the Ancient version of a hamper. His body is streaked with dirt, obscuring places Rodney knows will be bruised by the morning. He doesn’t acknowledge how much he hurts, even if his movements are stiffer and more awkward than usual. He’ll probably be unable to move tomorrow, but Rodney has the same pills John does.

They all do, really: muscle relaxers, pain killers, you name it, they’ve got it. Rodney can dose him when he wakes up to his lower back _creaking_ , and his left knee swelling up.

Suddenly, Rodney very much wants to be there, and have John be there, tomorrow morning. It’s _important._

“Hot enough?” John doesn’t look at him, just sticks a hand in the spray to angle it towards Rodney.

He catches a few drops on his palm. The water is warm, but not hot. “No, hotter.”

Dark eyebrows wing up, but John obediently turns the dial so steam starts billowing around them. Atlantis won’t let them scald, but her controls allow the temperature to go pretty near. Rodney waits until the whole bathroom goes up a few degrees, then shoves John under the spray before following him.

John immediately starts soaping himself. His back is to Rodney, attention focused on getting himself clean. Given how caked in dirt and dust and filth he is, that’s a fairly reasonable decision.

Rodney knows better. He tips his head back, letting water cascade down his face until it has to be red, flushed with almost-burns that hurt in the best of ways. He watches John, of course. He’s not giving that up—nor is he going to allow John to hide injuries he knows Carson missed. They’re minor, nothing much Carson could do even if he found them, but they have a habit of flaring up later when John’s body doesn’t bounce back as quickly as he expects it to.

Once John’s clean, the bandage around his arm soggy and half-falling off to reveal a wicked looking cut, he turns and starts on Rodney. It’s perfunctory, just a job to be done. Rodney doesn’t object, only moves as needed as John flows around him, single-minded and silent.

Rodney’s not good at being quiet, but he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Not yet.

Once they’re both flushed and clean, Rodney steps out of the shower and grabs a towel for them. There are other things they can do to get dry, but Rodney wants the towel. He wants to feel it rough against his own skin, wants to use it on John who doesn’t flinch or otherwise react as Rodney rubs harder and harder.

After that, Rodney re-bandages John’s arm. He’s a lot better at it than he used to be. At least the cut isn’t bleeding, stitched up tightly.

When the final piece of tape is placed, John walks to the middle of the bedroom, turns, and settles as gracefully as he can on his knees.

“Oh for,” bursts out before Rodney can stop it. “Get up. Get up right now! Get on the bed, you idiot, or you’re not going to be able to walk right for a week.”

John’s head stays down. He doesn’t move.

The rage comes back, as violent as if it’d never left and Rodney takes a shaky step forward. “Get on the god damned bed!”

Abruptly obedient, John scrambles onto the bed, and then returns to his kneeling, head down position.

It should’ve appeased Rodney to know that John understood Rodney was angry. He probably even understood _why_ he was angry—it was pretty obvious, after all.

But Rodney doesn’t want to be appeased. He wants it to never happen again, and he has no idea how to ensure that without destroying John in the process. “You know what gets me the most?” he says, thoughtful. He can’t look at John, a form seen only out of the corner of his eye. “It’s the look you gave me, in the infirmary. You’re just—so proud of yourself.”

John’s head comes up, a dark shadow Rodney doesn’t need to see properly to know it has occurred; John doesn’t obey well, even when he wants to. “Like you aren’t?”

“I don’t try and kill myself in the process!”

“Sure you do.” John shifts enough to make Rodney look at him, closing his legs so he can sit back on his heels. The flexibility doesn’t hold its usual allure. “Don’t lie to yourself, Rodney. You get yourself in trouble all the time.”

“In trouble, yes!” Rodney shouts back, arms up and waving as he begins to pace. His whole body hurts, but he’s got to move. “No one says I don’t get myself into trouble, but I don’t try to commit suicide for people I’ve never even met before!”

“And that’s not what I was doing, there!”

“Now who’s lying, huh? Come on, it’s practically your _mantra_ or tattooed on your ass. You don’t leave people behind and if there’s some way to be daring and dangerous and hey, possibly _kill yourself_ at the same time, you’ll take it! Hell, you’ll push people out of the way to make sure they don’t take it before you and _don’t_ tell me it’s your job, because your job has _nothing to do with your obvious psychosis!”_

The room rings with sudden silence.

“There wasn’t enough time.” John is glaring at him, as fully angry as Rodney even if it manifests differently. He shouted, sure, and yelled back decibel for decibel. But he doesn’t get violently furious the way Rodney does.

“Of course there wasn’t, I knew there wasn’t enough time to save—”

“You! There wasn’t enough time for _you_ to get back to the ’jumper!”

He—what? Rodney blinks, staring across five feet that could’ve been an ocean, given how far away it seems. “What?”

John is on his knees again, naked and furious and not beautiful, not at all the way his face crinkles tight, his lips pressing hard against his teeth, brow so furrowed it looks like a canyon. “You were going to stay there until the last second, trying to make the damned machine do it’s job. So don’t tell me you aren’t self-sacrificing, because that’s exactly what you were going to do! And even if I could make you run to the ’jumper, there wasn’t enough time, not for _any_ of us. I had to take the chance that the inner shields would hold.”

Rodney sits down on the edge of the bed with a thump. Inner shields. He hadn’t even thought there could have been internal shields to protect a user from the timed explosion, taking out the faulty equipment before it generated enough power to create a good sized crater when _it_ blew up. He’d been so focused on trying to shunt the power levels somewhere else, ground it out of being a problem so he could find the issue and fix it—

“I was right in the middle of it,” he says, thick with surprise. He’s not used to being the captain who goes down with the ship. That’s John, that’s for other people. It’s never occurred to him that stubbornness can be just as powerful motivator as useless heroics, which, actually, is pretty stupid. This isn’t the first time he’s done this, and it’s doubtful it’ll be the last. “I would’ve—even if I’d run—”

John moves, settling around Rodney like a living blanket, warm against skin that’s grown chilled. “You can still be mad at me, if you want,” he says, grinning just a little, just a faint echo of that smug little smirk as he leans in for a kiss. Then another, turning Rodney’s head for something longer and sweeter than Rodney ever believed possible, twenty years ago back in the infirmary.

“I _am_ mad at you,” he says, and means it. He really is.

John shivers against him, slight enough that it’s only their positions that lets Rodney feel it. But he _does_ feel it, and suddenly the energy that’s won past Carson’s rapidly-fading sedative has a place to go.

“Really angry,” he repeats, a little more force in his words. John shivers again, and starts panting when Rodney grabs his uninjured arm and uses it to push John away. “Next time, _tell_ me that you’ve got some sort of plan.”

“Do I have to say ‘mother may I’, too?” John smirks, then gasps, arching hard.

“Only if you want me to never touch you again,” Rodney says, releasing the bit of inner thigh he’d just pinched. John is incredibly sensitive there, which makes no sense given the way the gun holsters chafe. Rubbing his fingers over the reddened skin, Rodney leans forward and kisses it, too. “Do you want that?”

John shakes his head, a quick, silent jerk. His eyes are wide and already dilated, body instantly primed from a single touch. If it wasn’t that John is _always_ like this, always wanting and happy to give, Rodney would suspect the near-death adventure had turned him on.

But it doesn’t, he knows. It’s only when Rodney calls him on it, when Rodney gets angry—worried, _scared_ , and that hurts to think—and starts pushing him around that John goes hot and malleable, breathless as he waits for Rodney to choose.

“No, you don’t want me to stop. You like what I do to you.” He runs his hands carefully up John’s sides, starting with too-defined hips and ending with shoulders that are knobby and oddly slender looking. He’s careful because John’s skin doesn’t readily expose its injuries. It’s occasionally very useful—John has a fondness for clips and Rodney’s fingerprints on his hips and ass—but that isn’t Rodney’s goal, not yet. So he keeps the gesture light, teasing and almost tickling as he works his way back down. “You like this.”

John nods, only the faintest hint of green visible around the rim of his eyes. He’s open-mouthed and panting, body arching up towards Rodney with instinctive need.

Rodney shoves at a hip he thinks relatively undamaged, forcing John against the bed. “I’m pretty certain I didn’t tell you to move, yet. Don’t.”

John goes so still he barely breathes.

Climbing onto the bed, Rodney straddles John’s shins and sits down. It’s not comfortable—not only is he hairy, he’s _bony_ , so it’s narrow and itchy both—but it puts Rodney in perfect reach to touch every part of John, the thick column of his thighs, narrow, oddly tapered hips, the steady warmth of his chest and arms, neck and face. All of it is there for Rodney to touch however he likes, to kiss and bite and lick.

And he _wants_ to. This is his, all his, and he needs to go over every inch to find all the tender places, kissing them better, sucking on clean, fresh skin until it grows sluggishly mottled under his attention. He moves over John like a wave, back and forth, while John gasps under him, trying not to moan or cry out, trying to stay so very, very still.

“Good,” Rodney says when he finally thinks he’s done. He could attend to John’s back and that ass that begs to be bitten red, but right then he wants John watching him. John loves to watch Rodney work. “I like to watch you shiver. Like it’s so much _effort_ for you to stay still when I tell you to.”

It is effort, though. John’s lazy about a lot of things in his life, but sex isn’t one of them. He needs to touch during sex, more than any other partner Rodney’s had. He needs the connection and by denying him the slightest finger on Rodney’s skin, it’s driving him crazy.

Sitting back up and once again ignoring how incredibly uncomfortable it is, Rodney palms his own cock and strokes it. Beneath him, John _moans_ , his entire body twitching with want. “Oh, sorry,” Rodney says, smugly satisfied, “did you want something?”

But John stays quiet, hands flexing against the sheets the only indication that Rodney is torturing him.

Rodney stops his light, teasing motions and fully grips his cock, stroking slowly. He loves watching the foreskin move, so horribly absent on John, the way the head of his cock looks so darkly red against the paler pink of his fingers. He makes sure John can see everything, holding himself this way and that, even cupping his own balls, giving them a good, hard squeeze.

John breaks into another moan at that. He’s sweating now, body thrumming with the need to move, to jackknife up so he can put his own hand on Rodney’s cock, or his mouth—maybe his mouth, Rodney thinks. He’s licking his lips a lot. Hm.

Still stroking himself almost absently, Rodney shifts fully onto the bed. “Spread your legs,” he orders, “and start sucking on your fingers.”

This time the moan is high and breathy, almost immediately swallowed as John crams his first and second fingers deeply into his mouth. He sucks obscenely, eyes locked on Rodney’s hand, on his body. In and out those fingers move, glistening in the low light as they pull back. John’s not trying to be attractive as he sucks, although with that mouth he’s hard not to be. He’s trying to be quick, to coat himself as thickly as possible because he knows how much Rodney loves to lay back and let John suck, and rim, and finger him into orgasm, and he wants that. He wants to touch.

Rodney scoots a few inches back so his legs don’t brush a single part of John.

“Lift your legs,” he says, “wide as they can go. Get yourself ready.”

A hard, trembling shiver makes the whole bed move, but John obediently spreads his legs, lifting the left so that Rodney will have an unobstructed view. He’s not hairless here, but it’s softer and thinner, catching the light as John first exposes the edge of pink before pressing first one, then the other finger inside. His whole body _hitches_ , tightening on a breath that’s caught in his throat, visible when he swallows around it.

Rodney wants to lean down and bite that moving, cording neck, but he doesn’t. He just watches, lightly stroking himself as John rides past the first burn of his own fingers inside him. Rodney knows the exact second John relaxes into it, welcoming the pain—he can see it the way one knee slides out, exposing himself more as those fingers move, and move, dusky and lined with years against a soft, pale curve of skin.

“A third.”

John whimpers, eyes half-shutting as he obeys. His body arches again, back clear off the bed as it brings back that low hint of pain. It’s not bad, Rodney knows, John too used to this to require the patient application of fingers and lube that some always needed. But that bare hint is what Rodney's after, making John work and perform for what he ultimately wants.

“Are you there?”

His eyes open, flickering and dark as he latch on Rodney’s face. “Yeah,” he says, low and husky with need, filing the vaguely nasal whine into something that makes Rodney’s dick twitch. “Yeah, please.”

John always says please here—it’s meaningless, although it sounds pretty enough.

If Rodney really wants to be cruel, he’ll tell John to add the fourth finger. But he’s not interested in being that cruel, not now when John’s half-keening as he writhes against his fingers, forgetting to be still. Not when his own cock is insistently reminding him that it wants more than just Rodney’s own hand, wants to bury itself in slick, velvet smooth heat.

“Lube,” he croaks, suddenly aware of the way his skin prickles. Sweat burns when it runs into his own forgotten injuries, but that’s good, too.

John rocks his hips down hard, biting his lip. “Don’t need it, dammit—”

“Lube!” Rodney barks, and John’s up, fingers withdrawn as he scrabbles in the drawer with his clean hand until he finds the industrial sized tube Rodney doesn’t know how John procured and doesn’t want to. He wants _in_.

John retakes the same position. He’s jerky with eagerness and ends up splashing lube all over his belly and the bed. Neither of them care. Groaning loud at he begins fingering himself again, John looks expectantly over at Rodney’s cock.

It’s the final act of punishment when Rodney doesn’t ask John to coat him, instead slowly—so, _so_ slowly—warming the lube between his palms before he smooths it over his cock, all under John’s greedy gaze.

“Away,” Rodney says and then oh, _oh_ , yes. He slides in without the slightest hitch, John’s hips rolling up, legs going back to get Rodney as deeply as he can without any prompting. It’s an infraction, but Rodney doesn’t care because he’s there, held between something soft and tight, smooth and hot enough that it feels like the sun, like Rodney’s pushed himself into a start that pulses and clenches around him, _holding_ him.

After that, Rodney stops worrying about punishing anyone.

He initially wanted to draw it out, to force John to take all of it, but now that he’s here, _he_ can’t wait that long. Weight on his palms, Rodney starts thrusting in short, quick jabs that have no finesse, not care or control. This isn’t one of those nights, when they take their time. This is about fucking, about sealing his mouth over John’s as they pant and moan into each other, sweat easing the glide of their bodies. John’s got both legs wrapped around Rodney now, one big hand roaming up and down his back while the other cups Rodney’s cheek, guiding their kisses the way he doesn’t care to guide Rodney’s cock.

It’s fast, and almost brutal, but Rodney comes with a cry John immediately swallows, licking away all traces of noise. He hasn’t come yet—won’t come yet—and if Rodney wants, he could drag this out all evening. He could pull out now and make John wait. And John _would_ , patiently holding himself back until Rodney finally nods.

Except Rodney doesn’t want to.

Still shuddering inside of John, he reaches down and together they jerk John off with quick, hard strokes that have to hurt but don’t.

Rodney bites John’s neck as he comes, hot liquid splashing against both their bellies.

When they both stop breathing so hard, John’s the first to push and wiggle his way free. He winces when Rodney slips out, but waves away the frown of concern. “It’s fine,” he says. Padding naked into the bathroom, he comes back a moment later with a wet cloth. He carefully wipes Rodney down while it’s still warm before quickly cleaning himself.

The cloth goes into the hamper.

Rodney is finally calm, finally not angry and not scared because he knows John is okay. Oh, he’ll hurt tomorrow. Rodney will too. But it’s the kind of hurt that Rodney perversely enjoys, a low ache in his stomach and back.

He’ll bitch about the ache in his back, though. He’s not deluding himself.

John somehow gets Rodney under the covers without moving him too much, climbing back in to pull Rodney against his chest, arms scratchy and safe around his back. One hand goes to Rodney’s neck again, the other moving in soft pattern Rodney vaguely recognizes as aerial maneuvers.

“I thought you’d figure it out,” he says eventually.

Rodney snorts, the gust of air ruffling curls still mostly flattened from the wet cloth. “Shut up, we’re not having this conversation. Or rather, we just _had_ this conversation. I’m exhausted and if you aren’t, I can make sure you are.”

“Nah,” John says. “I’m good.”

Rodney moves closer. He knows John won’t sleep yet. He’ll stay up for at least twenty minutes more, maybe as much as an hour as he unwinds from the mission his own way. Rodney’s okay with it. Rodney gets up before he does, when they both have off the next day, and that’s the more important part, anyway. John’ll need care, medicine and goading to make sure he doesn’t whine like a four year old, instead of a man of forty.

Rodney can let him have this, he thinks, drifting off into sleep.


End file.
